The 64th Hunger Games
by artsyclarinetist
Summary: Experience this particular Hunger Games in the eyes of Etta Wellberg, a fourteen-year-old girl from Five with knife skills but no chance Now i totally forgot to do chapters so...sorry! I know its not perfect AND its not done yet but I worked really hard on this Enjoy!


**PART 1**

"Etta, wake up!" I begin to bounce in my curled up position on the bed as my eleven-year-old sister Piper jumps up and down on it. I groan and rotate onto my stomach. Piper fails to realize I'm perfectly comfortable the way I am and strips the sheets from my body. I moan again.

"Why so early?" I whine. The clock on my bedside table reads 6:13.

"It's Reaping Day!" I don't understand why Piper is so excited about this, but she loves watching the Games and picks favorites and correctly predicts who will win every year. She would probably be less excited if she knew there was a chance she'd be one of them. No, scratch that. She'd be even more excited knowing she could participate in the Games.

"Ugh," I moan as I drag myself out of bed. My feet, as winter pale and coated in freckles as the rest of my body, patter down the hall to the kitchen. Being in District 5, I guess I have a pretty nice house. A lot nicer than anyone in 11 or 12 would have, anyway. I vow to myself to stop taking things for granted as I fetch myself a muffin and smear jam on it. My younger brother Darcy swoops in, plucks my half-eaten muffin out of my hand, and dashes away before I can protest. I grab myself another muffin and smear more jam on it.

As I'm eating my second muffin, my mother calls to me from upstairs.

"Etta, honey, Opel lent you a dress. It's nice, too. I left it in your room." Opel Greene lives next door to us. She's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but a slew of boys have crushes on her for her magnetic ocean blue eyes, long eyelashes, and honey blond hair.

I go to my room to see the dress. It is really nice. It's a lilac cottony, stretchy material and it goes to the top of the knee. There's a band at the waist and the neckline is decorated with lavender cottony flowers.

I slip it on over my undies and look at myself in the mirror.

_Not too shabby_, I think to myself. My best friend Brielle always says that when someone looks good. I examine my facial appearance. I let my limp blond hair hang around my face. It's not a pretty blond like Opel's, it's this platinum blond color that makes it look like I bleached my hair. At least it doesn't get tangled a lot like Opel says hers does. Her hair reaches to her waist in luscious waves. Mine goes about halfway down my back and lies there flat like a dead animal attached to my head. Freckles cover my face, as well as my arms and legs and even my feet. My thin lips form a straight line, and my round nose, drenched in freckles, of course, is the same as always. The only thing I like about my face is my eyes. Two forests of green, my dad says. Nobody, none of my ancestors or anyone, has my eyes. My mother thinks that it's a sign I'm destined for the arena. Just what everyone wants.

After a while, I'm ready. I wait outside for the others to emerge from the house. First out comes Piper, then Darcy, then, last of all, my older sister, Magnolia. She looks stunning as usual in a kelly-green skirt and a crisp white blouse. Maggie is eighteen and therefore still eligible for the Games. Mother and Dad put in the most tesserae for her, thinking that she would be the most able to handle it out of all of us if she were picked. This year her name will be in thirty-nine times. Mine will only be in twelve.

We walk to the crowd of anxiously waiting people, leaving Piper behind with Mother and Dad. "See you guys later!" Piper says.

I follow Magnolia to the blood pricking place, where a frail old lady demands for my hand and stabs it with some pointy thing. "Go on, girl," she says, motioning away with her wrinkly hand.

I head to the fourteen-year-old section, where dozens of eager girls are standing around, whispering to each other. I find Bloom and Brielle in the crowd.

"Hey, guys," I say. They both reply with a hello.

"You guys nervous?" Bloom asks. She doesn't look nervous at all. She shouldn't be. Her older sister Fawn would surely volunteer if she were to be picked.

"Eh, not really," Brielle says.

"Kind of," I admit.

"Why?" Bloom inquires. "If you're selected, won't Maggie volunteer?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right," I agree.

"Oh, look, here's our mentor," Brielle says, looking pointedly at the high platform above us all. She is a short and skinny woman in her mid-twenties. Her skin is a lilac purple hue, as are her high heels and short, poufy dress. She looks like she might actually be pretty if her skin wasn't painted an unnatural color.

"Hello, everybody, and happy 64th annual Hunger Games!" Some people cheer. I don't.

"I'm your escort, Bliss, and, well, let's get this show on the road!" A few boys whoop.

"First off, a special video delivered from the Capitol!" Ugh. The stupid video again.

"War," The film begins, displaying flames and scattered remains of people on the giant screen. "Terrible war." Bloom rolls her eyes as she whips out her travel sketchpad to doodle. Brielle starts braiding her hair.

As the video drones on, I glance around at the other girls cramped into the audience, faces representing boredom and fear and get-me-the-hell-outta-here-ness. Squeamish younger ones whisper to each other. Some of the guys begin playing Mercy.

Finally, it ends.

"Alright, so, we're done with that. Now, time for the Reaping. Ladies first, as always." Bliss's heels clickety-clack down the platform to where two large glass bowls are placed. As her hand swished around the girls' bowl indecisively, doubt begins to creep in. What if I'm picked? Would Maggie actually volunteer for me? I know she loves me, but would she really be willing to sacrifice herself for me?

"Pippa Livingston!" It's not me. I'm relieved. Wait. Pippa Livingston? That's Brielle's sister. I look over at Brielle. She's staring at the ground. I can't believe it. Brielle's not going to volunteer for her sister. A weak, weeping, twelve-year-old Pippa approaches the stage slowly.

"No, not my baby!" Mrs. Livingston cries. I hear the whimpers of a young boy somewhere out in the crowd. These snivels just make Pippa cry harder. This girl will not survive more than a day in the arena. Despair comes out in her choking sobs. How dare the Capitol do something like this to these children. How dare Brielle not volunteer.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I hear myself yell, "I VOLUNTEER!"

Utter surprise flashes on the frightened Pippa's face. "Why, it appears we have a volunteer!" Her head swishes to my direction, and when she sees who I am, she looks confused. Well, I can understand why. Your sister's best friend is volunteering to take your place in a fight to the death? Why? I wouldn't be able to properly answer that myself, but I tell myself this is the right thing to do as I saunter towards the platform where Bliss and Pippa are standing.

"And what is your name, dear?" Bliss asks in her funny Capitol accent.

"Etta Wellberg," I gulp. Pippa's tear-stained face gazes up at mine with mingling emotions: immense gratefulness, confusion, and relief. Pippa walks off the stage and rushes to her crying mother who engulfs her in a hug.

"Thank you so much, Etta!" She exclaims.

A couple of jocks in the crowd start chanting, "ETTA, ETTA, ETTA," and one guy says, "Etta, you're hot!"

"No, dude, Opel is hot!"

See what I mean?

"Alright, alright, moving on to the boys." The guys start hollering and cheering again. Bliss's hand starts its swishy routine, and what feels like an hour later, her hand arises from the bowl.

"Wesley Clint," Bliss reads. A tall, brawny, tan boy appears from the crowd. Seventeen or eighteen, he looks. I guarantee he'll be the heartthrob of this year's tributes. Just now a couple girls almost fainted at the sound of his name. He shakes his mop of brown hair and some girls squeal. Actually, I think he's Opel's boyfriend. I've heard her drone on about him many times. He's perfect for Opel. He's model material, just like her – deep chocolate brown eyes, sun-kissed olive skin, and shaggy brown hair.

"Shake hands, please." Wesley takes my trembling hand in his firm one and he flashes me a miniscule smile, too small for Bliss to notice. "The tributes from District 5, everybody, Etta Wellberg and Wesley Clint!"

Inside the Justice Building, my family greets me first. All of them except Magnolia. Darcy looks like he might cry, but he would never admit it. He hugs me tight, and lets go, unleashing Piper towards me. She crawls into my lap, tears streaming down her face.

"I don't want you to go," she whispers. "I won't," I say reassuringly. "I promise." That may have been the biggest lie of my life. Mother shakes her head, but grabs me and holds on tight. Dad and she both hold onto me for two or three minutes, and then a soulless Peacekeeper escorts them out. "WAIT!" I hear a voice cry. Magnolia breaks in through the doors. "You didn't get a token." She opens her fist up to me. Inside it is a bracelet, made by Magnolia. It's light pink, purple, and blue.

"I was making this for Piper, but I think you should have it," She explains softly.

I force my wrist toward her, and she wordlessly ties it on. She starts to leave, but turns around and envelopes me in a hug. She stands there for a long time, then puts her hands on my shoulders. "You can do this, Etta," she says. Then she leaves.

The train is colossal. Its massiveness amazes Wesley and me. Bliss, however, is not fazed by the titanic form of transportation. "Come on, guys, don't dawdle," she says, summoning us to board the vehicle. Inside, we meet our mentors. Mine is Serena, a twenty-something-year-old woman who won the 57th Hunger Games by making friends with the Careers and killing them all in their sleep. Wesley's mentor is Griffin, who's actually really old and won the first Hunger Games. Over dinner, we make small talk. The rumors are true about this scrumptious cuisine in the Capitol. After dinner, Bliss ushers us to the couch to watch the Reapings in all the districts. From one are two seventeen-year-olds name Trixie and Brent, both with determined looks on their faces and haughty attitudes. _It doesn't matter anymore, _I tell myself. _You're already dead_. Then they move onto District 2. The girl is a burly eighteen-year-old with a fierce look on her face. Surprisingly, several girls were all trying to volunteer. The girl said she was happy with her place. "So you're Bethany Star, hon?" says the blue escort. "Yes. Don't ever call me 'hon' again," says Bethany ferociously. A few boys hoot. As for the boys, one guy doesn't even wait for a name to be called. He coolly saunters up to the stage, and says, "The name's Jaxon Waters." Some guys in the audience yell, "YEAH, JAXON!" and he nods back in approval.

The tributes from three are squirming youngsters who both get replaced by older teenagers. The girl's name is Quintatia and the boy's is Cecilius. In four, the fourteen-year-old girl's name is Mindy and the fifteen-year-old boy's is Carson. He's really cute…Then, our district. They show Pippa's stricken face as they announce her name. They show her small, scared steps towards the stage. Then "I VOLUNTEER!" erupts from out of nowhere. The camera whizzes in my direction, where I look as astonished at what came out of my mouth as Brielle and Bloom. Then I walk up to the stage. Pippa looks up at me for shorter than it felt like during that moment, and walks away. They show Wesley being picked. In six, there's a sixteen-year-old girl named Anastasia and a fourteen-year-old boy named Max. The tributes from seven are eighteen-year-old Topaz and eighteen-year-old Clifford. From eight comes a twelve-year-old girl named Willa who faints when her name is called and a seventeen-year-old boy named Marcus. Seventeen-year-old Tiffy and seventeen-year-old Finnigan are the tributes from nine. Ten brings Isys, a thirteen-year-old girl, and Louis, a sixteen-year-old boy. From eleven is a sixteen-year-old girl named Ruby and a fourteen-year-old boy named Clint. The tributes from twelve are two seventeen-year-olds named Mina and Macka.

Nothing in particular strikes me as interesting except for that poor twelve-year-old Willa, from eight. While she remained tough about the situation (after the fainting, of course) her wide, innocent blue eyes told a different story. She looked as if she knew she was going to die. Even though I probably had the same look on my face, hers was just so much more innocent. Her tiny, squat frame only confirmed the sad prediction deemed upon her. I decide to form an alliance with her in the arena. She can use as much help as she can get. It doesn't look like the male tribute from her district, Marcus, would be very sympathetic and caring. My prediction is that he's going to take this game as an every-man-for-himself one, along with many other tributes. No alliances, no help accepted. Do everything yourself.

"Etta? Anybody in there?" Serena asks, looking into my eyes as if there may _not _be someone in there.

"Yeah? What?" I say, waking up from my contemplation.

"We were just saying, training starts tomorrow and you might want to think about the spots you need extra help in." She says this so nonchalantly, like it's a day of pre-school we're talking about.

"Oh. Okay," I say.

Hmm… Let me think. I'm hopeless. I need extra help in shooting an arrow, throwing a spear, I don't know, surviving?

The only things I think I don't need help in are running, hiding, and climbing trees. I've always been the fastest in gym class. I even won in a track meet against seventeen and eighteen-year-olds. It's strange, though, because I'm short, too. Short and squat like Pippa. Broad-shouldered, flat chest (nothing like Opel's), faintly flabby stomach, strong thighs and calves, clown feet. That's me. I am strong, though. My dad was a major bodybuilder in his teenage years, apparently, so he always had me lifting weights.

Climbing trees for me is like walking up stairs. I climb them everyday to get to my secret tree house that I meet (or…met…Oh, god, why did I do this?) Bloom and Brielle at to do homework and eat snacks and talk. My house is surrounded by them. Climbing trees is a children's pastime in 5.

"Well, just think about it, okay?" Willa says, then leaves to talk to Bliss.

That night, I lay in bed, thinking about the easiest ways to die. Nightlock isn't painful, is it? Or….should I really try to get far in the game? Then, I would increase the risk of a terrible, anguished, aching death. Oh, I don't know. I'll go in there and see what happens. _I don't even care anymore, _I keep repeating to myself_. I'm pretty much dead already. It doesn't matter anymore. I don't care anymore._

The next day, we arrive in the Capitol. I think it's designed to scare us tributes. With the concrete buildings, floors, and walls, it's anything but homey. The people aren't very welcoming, either. They're all multi-colored Blisses. Red, blue, green, pink, yellow, orange, green Blisses. Even animal Blisses. Baby Blisses.

"Nice, huh?" Griffin says from behind, poking me with his cane. That's the first thing he's said to me since I boarded the train.

"Yeah," I say, using proper manners.

"You know where Wes is?" Griffin asks, ending his question with a hack and a cough.

"No, sorry," I tell him. People notice the train and start waving at me. Some teenage boys even blow kisses. I can't say I'm not flattered. I wave back, mustering up a smile, even. Why am I waving at these people? They are the enemies. The spoiled ones. They've never had to deal with the terror of possibly being sent to compete in a death match of kids. I stop waving.

Wesley comes out of his cave eventually and, I swear, a few girls sigh as he walks off the train. Even with his bedhead. "Hey there, Etta," He says.

A few hours after being (painfully) pampered and beautified, I meet my stylist.

"Hello, Etta. I'm Warren. You are the most beautiful, courageous girl I've ever laid eyes on." Okay. This is gonna be awkward. First of all, this guy's, like, forty. Kind of a handsome forty-year-old. But still, he's a forty-year-old. Too old to be calling a fourteen-year-old beautiful.

"Um, thanks?" I say.

"You really don't deserve this."

"What?"  
"You kids, all being forced to kill each other. It's the most ludicrous, despicable thing I've ever heard of."

Okay, maybe I can learn to like this guy.

"So, you and Wesley have the parade tonight. I know you guys are five, Power."

I nod. The previous costumes have been so stupid. I'm not looking forward to this.

To Warren's delight, he said he was supposed to examine me naked to figure out what body type I am – petite or curvy. Uhhm, ew. It was so awkward, just standing there with my bare freckly ta-tas hanging out and my pale, freckled butt slightly sagging. Not to mention the for-girls-only section.

So Warren walked all around me with his hand grazing his chin stubble and, get this: when he got to my butt, he said "Aha!" How pedophilic is that?! _It doesn't matter anymore. I don't care anymore._

When he finally let me put a robe on, he sat me down in a folding chair and and told me I was petite. Yeah. No shit, Sherlock. I know my body. I've been living in it since the day I was born?

"I have the whole outfit planned out now. You'll wear a short, shapeless dress made up of little silver lightning bolts, with one shoulder. Do you like? I mean, if you'd rather have the alternate, which is something as hideous as what all the other districts are probably wearing…."

"No, that sounds good… But isn't it mandatory that we have some sort of ugly headpiece?"

Warren let out a deep, throaty, kind of sexy laugh. "Nah. You'll wear a silver zigzag headband that looks like a lightning bolt, around your forehead.

This actually sounds…cute. Is that possible? The parade outfits are almost always repugnantly unattractive. I just hope I don't look too stupid…This will be one of the last places all of district 5 will see me in. My family, my friends… not that Brielle is really a friend after all. I mean, in a way, it's all her fault I'm here. If she just sucked it up and volunteered for her sister, I wouldn't be here. She was too selfish.

I looked good. I mean, as good as you can look with my petite, elfin frame. I wore these glittery heels that added about five inches to my 5'1/2" height. My legs were exposed up to my mid thigh, where the dress ended. It was made up of two-inch long silver lightning bolts. The fabric reached up around my left shoulder, and scooped down my back, revealing most of it to my butt. The dress was a little baggy, but I liked it that way. It hid my small, but existent, muffin top. Across my head was the one lightning bolt. I really did look pretty. Warren applied some mascara and silver eyeliner, along with the essential basics, like lip gloss and blush. Wesley had a similar outfit to mine, but his was just a shirt and then he had silver pants. I looked better and he knew it too. It was just too girly of an outfit for a grown, muscular guy like Wes to wear.

A lady with a bright blue afro and taut green lips led us to a chariot. In front of us, the tributes from 4 had blue scaly ensembles, being the district for fishing. Behind us, 6, was wearing some sort of outfit that supposedly represented Transportation.

After minutes of anxious lingering, President Snow took the microphone. An endless, rambling speech went on and on until finally, that blue-haired Cheeser something-or-other began announcing each district and their costumes. Soon enough, we're moving and waving and smiling like we're actually excited to die. Again, teenage boys and even men are whooping and hollering and blowing kisses and throwing roses at me. I guess I'm prettier than I thought.

"Ah, District 5! Lightning bolts! A classic design molded and modified to fit two beautifully attractive teenagers! How great is that?" Cheeser booms into the humongous room. Cheers echo off the concrete walls. His bug-eyed, frizzy-haired assosiate up in the announcers' room nods and laughs. We come to a halt behind District 1's chariot. They are some multi-colored thing with a neon purple headpiece. Lavish goods? They look like what would come out of a baby after eating a box of crayons. The girl turns around and shoots me a death glare. Her piercing hazel eyes cease to frighten me. I cock my head innocently back at her and show her my teeth like a good girl. She rolls her eyes and swishes her head back forward, shaking her poop colored hair. Hey, no one said I had to be nice.

"Fabulous job, guys! You looked like you were in a skin care ad!" Bliss gushed as she speed walked over to us, today in her knee-high orange boots.

Wes smiled. I said thanks and awkwardly started walking around like an idiot. Of all people, Carson from 4 came up to me. "Hey," he said quietly, like he would be arrested if anyone heard him or something. "Hi…?" I say curiously. "I just wanted to say…" He grazes the back of his tan neck with his hand and gazes in another direction. His magnetic turquoise eyes return to making contact with mine. "I wanted to say you look really pretty, that's all." I feel my cheeks get hot. The right corner of my mouth curves up. "Thanks," I say. "But…are you just being nice now because you're going to kill me later?" He laughs a deep, sexy one like Warren's. "No, not at all." He looks at the ground and back up at me. "How could I ever let myself kill someone as stunning as you?" Our cheeks are four fresh rosebushes. "I gotta leave," He tells me. "But, hey, I'll see you at training?" Is this guy asking me out on a date or something? To the training center in the Capitol? Where kids prepare to face their fatality? I look at him skeptically. "Sure," I assure him. "Yeah. Will you teach me how to survive?" His eyes connect with mine again. He runs a hand through his light brown hair. "Well, I don't exactly know how to do that myself, but I'll trade you some knot-tying skills for one of your talents." "You got it," I say nervously. He smiles and walks away. Ahh, who ever thought something good could come out of the Hunger Games? Wait! I don't have any skills to trade with him…Crap.

The next day, I fling myself into the training center desperate to discover some hidden talent that I've secretly had my whole life. I think it may be my lucky day, because I always feel pretty when I get lucky. Despite the drab black outfit we tributes are supposed to wear in the Training Center, I think I do look pretty. My prep team, the ones who revamped me the day I arrived in the Capitol, gave me this cream that isn't officially makeup, but enhances my freckles somehow. They also introduced me to this thing called an eyelash curler. My hair is in a French braid, which I always thought looked good on me. First, I place myself at the arrow-shooting center, where the girl from 1 keeps shooting me angry looks and I know I have no skill in. I completely miss the board more than once, which earns me a few cackles from some of the Careers. Okay. I'm not destined for the arrow-shooting.

In painting, I fail to impress the trainer and/or the tributes from 7, 9, and 12, who apparently are the next Picassos or something. I end up painting a flower on the thigh of my pant, which merits me a hostile lecture from the trainer. Yeah? Mad at me? Ass to you. You're supporting kids killing other kids. I really don't even care about anything anymore. Except for impressing Carson….

I found my talent! And get this: it's _knife-throwing_! Knife-throwing was my last hope. I pretty much had no hope, though, because I had tried knife-throwing with Bloom and her sister, who's extremely good at it, when I was nine and I remember being immensely terrible at it. Even worse than I was at arrow-shooting. But I guess my skills improved in the last five years. I really don't know how…I mean, if you're really bad at something, you really can't fix it…Oh, who cares? I have a talent to exchange with Carson! I'mgood. Like, _good_. I hit it right in the center almost every time. The boys hanging around that area watching me were impressed. Including Carson. After hitting seven in a row, right in the heart, Carson comes up to me. "Damn," he murmured. "I'm scared of you." I laugh for real for the first time since the Reaping. "Too scared to be my ally in the games?" I said. I don't even realize what I am saying. "No," he says. "I want you to be my ally."

An image flashes through my mind: Me and him kissing up in the branches of a tree. Then, another one: Me sleeping on one of the branches, him coming up and stabbing me. Which one could be real? I vote for the first. Carson leads me to the knot-tying section, where the girls from 3, 6, and 11 are talking and laughing like best friends. The girl from 3, Quintatia, I think, sees Carson and me and asks, "Do you guys know what you're doing? We have no clue." They laugh with each other and I feel a tinge of happiness just from their joy. Anastasia from 6 holds up a jumbled, tangled mess of rope. "Quintatia, I don't know what you been smoking, but I see skill here." Quintatia and Ruby from 11 double over in snorts and giggles. Finnigan from 9 walks over, shaking his head. "Girls, girls. What fine aptitude is displayed in this….thing. It is without flaw! I can tell now – the odds are most certainly ever in your favor." All of the people at the knot-tying table – including me – crack up at his imitation of Caesar Flickerman (I finally learned his name). I still can't believe there is fun going on in something that is part of the Hunger Games. Tiffy, also from nine, strides over. "Gee, did I really hear a laugh coming from the training center for the Hunger Games?" She smiles, and I notice how beautiful she is. She has dark brown hair that reaches to her shoulders. Choppy, stylish bangs reach just above her eyes. She has bright green eyes just like mine, and freckles are sprayed across her cheeks. Finnigan plants a kiss on her and puts his arm around her shoulder. Woah. When did that happen? Is it a sign of rebellion? Are they really together? Maybe both.

"Alright, I'll teach you a few different knots," Carson tells me. "By the way, nice flower on your pants." I smile sheepishly. An hour later, I am a knot-tying pro. Carson's a great teacher. He has great arms. Of course, I don't remember the names of any of the knots, or how to really do them, but hey, I got some extra time with my possible boyfriend that I could possibly end up killing. I lead Carson over to the knife-throwing center. Unfortunately, the girls from 1 and 2,Trixie and Bethany, are there too. Bethany's red fishtail reaches almost to her butt and it swishes around when she throws it. Trixie's hair is toppled up in some bun on her head. They, along with the rest of us, are wearing these drab black outfits with the number of our district on the upper arm. They're both just as good as me. Bethany finishes her last knife, throwing it directly in the person's crotch, making Trixie laugh. She gestures with her hands for me to go. I smile and grab a knife. I decide to aim right for the bull's eye in the head. I close my eyes, open them and throw. _Yes_. I hit it right in the center. I lift an eyebrow to Bethany and Trixie, as if to say, _See? I am good_. "Yeah, Etta!" Carson says, giving me a high-five. "Lucky shot," Trixie says. "Bet ya can't do it again." She hands me a knife. I accept it and throw another one at the chest. It lands right in the heart. _Perfect_. Bethany smiles ferociously. "You're not bad for a twelve-year-old," She says. She saunters away before I have a chance to tell her I'm fourteen. "Don't let her get you down," Carson encourages. "Instead, teach me how to throw." An hour later, Carson is still not that good, but he insists I don't teach him more. "Really," he says, "It's okay. I'm pretty good at other things for the games. Not that I have a chance of winning. I'm hopeless." I tell him I feel the exact same way. "I really like you, Etta," he says, taking my hand. Luckily, we're off in a corner, so hopefully no one sees us. "I'll see you tomorrow." He kisses me on the cheek and leaves.

The next day is the evaluations. I talk about how nervous I am with all different people – Wesley, Bliss, Serena, Warren, even Griffin. Not that I think he's listening when I talk. Wesley tells me I'll get a better score than him. He's not good at anything except for hand-to-hand combat, which'll be no match for swords and arrows and knives. "Well," I tell him, "If you're strong and fast, run to the Cornucopia and kill anyone who gets in your way." "I don't want to kill people," He practically whispers. "I'll go to hell, even if I win." I nod. I'm only going to kill someone if they threaten me. Except for Trixie. I'll have no problem killing her. I really can't think of anyone else I would kill. They're all so nice. We're all blameless teenagers arbitrarily forced into this game. In a few weeks, 23 of us will be dead. Probably including me. We never did anything to the Capitol. Also, by the way, if 13 is what caused the problem, why do we even do this anymore? 13's dead. Not a trace is left of their existence. So why do we even care?

Before I know it, the evaluations sneak up and tackle me. I'm waiting outside on the hard metal bench, waiting for Carson to finish. He told me he would 'dazzle the judges with his winning façade and muscles.' I hope he doesn't get the lowest score. I'd be embarrassed for him. The door opens, revealing a relieved, but also grumpy, Carson.

"How'd it go?" I asked.

"All right," He told me. "I think they were impressed by my knife-handling."

He grins and leaves. I push open the heavy door and see the room I've just spent about eight hours in. But it looks different. Empty. The judges who were talking among themselves a moment ago, all hush to look at me. "Etta Wellberg, District 5," I say as Bliss told me to. Nods of approval come from the judges. First, I go to the knot-tying, deciding to leave the best, knife, for last. My knots are somewhat recognizable but nothing like Carson's. The judges murmur their thoughts with each other quietly. I walk over to painting, where I spend over twenty minutes painting my hand to resemble part of a bush. It's not that great. The judges frown down at me from their closed-off judge's area. Just as I put the paintbrush down, the gamemaker tells me, "Sorry, kid. I think your time's up." I pretend I didn't hear him. This can't happen! They didn't see my best feature! "Kid. Ella. Whatever. Your time is up." This time I look up at him, only to show my face full of disappointment. "But," I stammer, "You, sir y-you didn't get to uh see-" two Peacekeepers lift me up under the armpits and begin to escort me out. "No! Please let me down!" I say forcefully, but somewhat politely. "LET ME DOWN, YOU IDIOTS!" I start hammering on their shoulders. They don't budge. When we finally arrive at the door, I give up. This sucks. The Peacekeepers let me down. I open the door. Hopeful-looking Bliss, Serena, and Wesley are looking at me expectantly.

"Well?" Serena asks. "How did it go?" Apparently these doors are designed to trap sound. The boiling anger building up inside of me pops like a balloon. "AARGGHHH!" I sink to the floor, crying. The tributes from other districts look at me curiously. "What happened?" Serena asks, brushing my hair out of my face. Wesley starts stroking my back, but gets hauled away by a Peacekeeper for his test. "They didn't get to see me throw," I sigh. "Why not?" Bliss asks, fast-walking to where Serena and I are. She only cares because if we get poor scores, it reflects badly on her. "I was saving it for last," I whisper. Serena nods and continues rubbing my head, which is odd but comforting. She then envelopes me in a hug. "The exact same thing happened to me, honey," Serena murmurs. "I went in there and there wasn't a trainer for hand-to-hand combat, which was my best spot. I was so mad. I ended up getting a 6 because I sucked at all the other things like spears or arrows. But, hey, I still won, right?" I nod, but tears keep flowing. All hope has been abandoned. I was repeatedly told that the key to surviving was parachutes, which were given by sponsors, which only came if people thought you were good, or had a chance, which they thought depending on what score you got. I am going to die. I think I had known that since the second I volunteered, but I frequently shoved that thought back into my brain, replacing it with thoughts about Carson or something else. _I don't even care anymore. _I revert to that way of thinking. _You're already dead, Etta._

That night was the interviews. Not that I cared. I was already dead in my mind. I got a five in the evaluations. I didn't care. Carson got a nine. Wesley got a ten. I didn't care. I barely paid attention to what Warren was having me wear until I put it on. I know what I'm wearing is a stupid thing to change my way of mind so easily, but I seriously regained my hope when I saw that dress. It was a baggy forest green chiffon material all the way down to the waist, and then there was a stretchy band. In the front, the dress reached to the top of the knee and in the back, to my feet. It had thick straps at the top. "Do you like it?" Warren asks hopefully. "I love it, Warren," I tell him. "Good, because you look amazing," he tells me. He does my hair in this wavy half up style where, in the back of my head, my pulled up hair forms a bow. Carson's gonna freak.

"Etta, you look uh-MAZING!" Bliss clicks across the shiny floor in some blue getup that actually looks sort of pretty. Her blue hair is straight, with a braided piece going across her forehead. She has a slim-fitting white dress on that poufs out at the mid thigh. She looks like Smurfette, kind of.

"Thanks," I blush. My makeup looks good too. I used the freckle enhancer and the eyelash curler, along with some new goo the Capitol invented that makes your eyelashes grow. I have a peachy blush on and a light pink lipstick. It's another lucky day. "Yes, you really do look stunning," Serena says, running after Bliss. I never really described what Serena looks like. She has wavy dark brown hair that reaches to her butt, but looks well taken care of, not trashy. She has big chocolate brown eyes like Wes's, and a cute button nose that looks perfect with her small lips. She's wearing a plum-colored maxi dress paired with brown sandals and a long white cardigan. I've realized Serena's not much of a fancy dresser, which is one of the many things I like about her.

Instead of sitting before my turn, I stand this time to wait. Carson is very charismatic with Caesar Salad, adopting a funny personality. "What is your best skill for the arena?" Blue Hair asks Carson. "Umm, I've got to go with knife-throwing," Carson says. "A very special person taught it to me." I stifle a grin. Flickingman thanks Carson and wishes his luck and it's my turn and oh my god what the hell am I supposed to say and woah there's a lotta Blisses out there and what did he just say? "Yeah, um, haha," I say, having no idea what I'm responding to. "So," Caesar begins, "just for the record, I think you looked fabulous at the parade last night. You look even more breathtaking now! You're a beautiful girl, really. Who agrees with me?" The crowd erupts in cheer. A rose is thrown up to the stage. I smile and pick it up. Hoots come from the audience. "So," Caesar says to me, "We all saw your score and I have to say, I was a little surprised. What happened in the Training Center?" I want to say that they didn't see me throw so badly, but Serena told me that it would be good to hide my skill, so it would come in handy as a secret weapon. "I guess I just got nervous," I say. "Well," he tells me, "I wish you the best of luck in the arena. May the odds be EVER in Etta Wellberg's favor!" he holds up my hand and I face the crowd of rainbows with a big smile. Wow. That was quick. I almost wish it was a little longer. Warren, Serena, and Bliss greet me with "Great job!"s and "You looked gorgeous"es. Carson comes up to me later. "You look absolutely….breathtaking," he says with a smirk. "And you look handsome," I reply. "Are you nervous?" he asks me. "Well, of course," I say, looking at the ground. "But I've kind of taken a habit to just telling myself things like 'it's already over' and 'you're dead already'. It just makes me feel more comfortable. I don't know." Carson shakes his head. "That's the most insane thing I've ever heard." I look up at him with slight hurt. "Just because….Out of all the people I've talked to, I think you have the biggest chance of winning." I'm speechless. Does he really think that? "I….have to go," I tell him. "But…See you tomorrow, I guess." "See you then. Beautiful." I'm glad I turned around because my cheeks have been replaced with two tomatoes. As I'm walking, looking at the ground, I bump into that girl, Willa. "Sorry," She says quickly and nervously. "Sorry." Her gray eyes are filled with dread and worry. She thinks I'm like Bethany or Trixie. "Don't worry about it," I tell her. She nods and walks away, her shoulder-length bob of strawberry-blonde hair bouncing with every step.

I listen to Wes's interview. "How do like Etta?" Caesar asks Wesley. What kind of question is that? "Oh, Etta really is special," he answers. "I don't think she realizes how powerful and talented and beautiful she is. She's been so nice." That's right if by nice he means I'm good at cracking jokes about people behind their backs. "I feel like a brother to her. I'll definitely be keeping an eye out for her in the arena." What does that even mean, "keeping an eye out?" It sounds like something a father would say when he was referring to spying on his daughter at a date. Well, whatever. Wesley finishes his interview and I bring him into a hug, wrapping my legs around him so he's holding me up. "Woah," Wes says, laughing. "Thanks for making me look good," I say to him. "Etta Wellberg, how could you ever look bad?" Just for the heck of it, I give him a kiss on the cheek. Oops. I hope Carson didn't see that. I guess he's in the oh-what-the-hell mood too, because then Wesley kisses me on the _lips_! Bethany walks by and sees him. "Woah," she says. "What happened to you _boyfriend_, Etta?" Wesley looks at me quizzically. I roll my eyes at Bethany and put my feet back on the ground. "She's talking about Carson, from four. He likes me." Wesley nods. Wait. He doesn't _like _me, does he? I mean, I guess four years isn't that much… Wesley gives me a firm hug. "Look," he says seriously, looking straight into my eyes. "If I'm going to die in this thing, I want you to win." He walks away.

I only get about six hours of sleep that night because whenever I know that I need to get a lot of sleep I never do. I honestly would be happier dying right away then getting far into the games and being struck with a sword or something, but I've officially decided that I am going to try. For Wesley.

**PART 2**

I am in the tube. I am rising up. I am on a beach. There is water to my right and forest to my left. The Cornucopia is in front of me. There's a knife right in front of me. I will take it. I will take it and go into the woods. Or wait, maybe I should-

10, 9, 8, ohmygodidontwannadie, 7, 6, 5, go for the knife, 3, take it and go, 2, 1.

I grab the knife and run for my life. I run

And run

And run

And run

And run until my lungs are dry

And run some more

And run until I think I'm actually going to die from running so hard and long

So I walk. No water. I hear a cannon. Need water. I've been in the games for about two hours now. Can't find water. What is that I see in the distance? Is it really...? A dead person. I walk a little closer. It's Max from 6. He has a duffel bag in his hand. I kind of think God placed Max's corpse right there so I could have his bag. It literally has everything I need. Water, oh, sweet water, a bungee cord, and a sleeping bag. I start to take a sip. "HEY!" Oh my god it's all over. "Who goesss theereee?" A few girls laugh. "Oh shut up, Ruby." It's the threesome from the other day. "Seriously, though, who's there? We just want to know if we need to run away or not." How come they're so happy and cheery? "It's, it's Etta. From five?" I wait for a reply. "Oh hey girl! You got mad knife skills. Wanna join our group?" Wow. That was easy. "Yeah. Sure. Where are you guys?" They all start waving their hands around from a colossal tree a couple hundred yards away. I start climbing up. "Woah," Quintatia remarks. "You climb it so….effortlessly. I had to push Annie's fat ass all the way up." "No you did not! I got up myself most of the way." "Sure you did, An…" I'm so glad I'm with the happy group. Although they're probably not the most trained tributes. Well. I'll stick with them for now and see what happens. To my surprise, Willa's up here too. The twelve-year-old. She must be pretty good at making friends because she didn't get a very good score on her training evaluation. Although I guess you shouldn't throw stones in glass houses. Mindy from Four is here as well. I guess she was to scared to try joining the Careers group, even though she is one of them.

For the rest of the day, we take turns hunting for food. I'm scared to death the Careers will find me so I make Willa come with me. We find some berries and I catch a squirrel. We fill up three bottles of water in a nearby lake and head back up, proud of ourselves. "Wow," Ruby says. "You guys did really well." We dine on berries and squirrel (which actually isn't half bad, cooked,(we made a fire and put it out after heating the squirrel because we realized how stupid it was)). Halfway through our meal, the hologram of The Fallen starts. First, surprisingly, Brent from 1, and then Max from 6, Clifford from 7, Marcus from 8, both from 10, the boy from 11, Clint, and both from 12. Well, we made it this far. And so did Wesley and Carson.


End file.
